


Cared For

by Treegoats



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Body Horror, Creepy Caretaking Dynamics, No Hope Here Only Misery, effects of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:09:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Treegoats/pseuds/Treegoats
Summary: Ramsay takes care of Reek.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Reek, Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	Cared For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PenelopeTower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeTower/gifts).



> PenelopeTower asked for sickfic a la thramsay, based on a passage in [my last fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26839423)  
> (in it, Reek, badly sick and injured as consequence of Ramsay's actions, finds Ramsay, who nurses him back to half-health)  
> & so-- here it is.

The world is crashing over him like white waves and he knows himself dying.

The irony of crawling for salvation towards the hands that shattered him, it would not be lost on him, if he had any capacity for thought left. Reek is never unaware. Reek is trapped in perpetual motion, limboed in a maze without exit, but aware, unfortunately, he is. Ramsay wrecks him, Ramsay shapes him, Ramsay tears him to pieces then hammers the remains into love. Ramsay told him every step of the process, when he first did it, long ago, when he laboriously carved Reek out of the villain called Theon Greyjoy. "I will train you," he said, and train he did. "Pay attention", he said, and Reek paid attention. It doesn't help Reek to know the mechanisms of what was done to him, since what was done to him is what was done to him.

He is in no state for thought, though, in no state for awareness. He is in a state of raw survival. His breath rattles hot and fast, his vision flickers, his flesh burns feverish, his pulse races like a weakening rabbit. Movement is shredded meat turned abstraction, to drag himself down the halls a mystical capability. Reek knows himself dying, and therefore he crawls to find Ramsay. It makes sense. Where else could Reek possibly crawl to?

Ramsay picks him up like a bundle of rags, hands strong and gentle, Ramsay who could have stomped him out like nothing, he extends his mercy to save him.

\--

He's lying on something soft. He wonders himself dead; he forgot about contact to softness.  
He's lying on something soft and somewhere warm, both of which is an impossibility in the world he inhabits.

He must be dead, then, but he's also in a lot of pain, so he must know. He opens his crusted eyelids, with effort. He struggles, and after the passing of universes, he succeeds. He sees lightness, then black and grey, then a face slowly comes into focus. Ramsay's pale eyes are looking down at him, ice and steel and terrible, they stare unblinking, and Reek free falls straight into terror.

"Shhhh," Ramsay responds to his agitation. "Shhhh," he repeats and presses a hand against Reeks forehead, holds his head tight like a vice, forces him into stillness against the furs. His lips crawl in fond triumph at the effect he causes. "I'm excited to see you, too, sweet Reek," he murmurs.

Reek goes limp, under the gaze, under the hold. Not dead, then. Still _here_ , then. His eyes flutter close.

\--

Ramsay washes his chest, washes his wounds, and the world must have reversed. Logic must have unhinged. These are not the things Ramsay does.

But Ramsay teaches him better: "Now my dear father," Ramsay is recollecting, "he used to say: What you want to break, you must learn how to fix." Ramsay was talking before Reek came to consciousness. He will keep talking after. Ramsay likes to talk, sometimes. "Phah, such a condescending man, my father," Ramsay continues. "You know, who even cares about _fixing_ shit." He's turning Reek onto his side, softly. "The subtlety of the knife this, the precision of House Bolton that, blah, blah, blah." He's cleaning his back, now. "Oh, _Ramsay_ 's just a bastard, though, not a Bolton. Some peasant boy I raped into existence, he doesn't _do_ subtle," and is that actual hurt in Ramsay's voice, or is it a jape? Does Ramsay choose his Reek to tell him things he'd never tell otherwise, or is it all just play? He lifts one arm to wash underneath.

"But look at _you_ ," Ramsay whispers into Reek's ear. "Look at what I created in _you_." And he laughs loud and triumphant.

\--

Reek floats into consciousness and he's lying soft and warm and his flesh thrums in pain and so does his breath. It doesn't smell-- _he_ doesn't smell. His arms and ribs are stiff with--bandages?  
_Where_? he wonders. _Where am I?_ Where could this possibly be?

A hand lands on his forehead, and this hand is attached to an arm, and this arm leads to a face and--to-- to _Ramsay_ , to Ramsay's eyes, grey and cold and terrible, and---

"Oh, fucking hush," says Ramsay. "It's flattering, you know, this wonderfully wretched terror, but is _is_ getting old." He catches Reek's whimpering jaw with a hand, softly pries his mouth open. "C'mon now, drink."

\--

Ramsay unravels the dressings from Reek's arm and he does so gently, _genuinely_ gently. Reek didn't know Ramsay was capable of such sustained gentleness. This is a time of wonder and new learnings.

Reek's head hangs limply against the furs, hair wet with sweat. He's been drifting in and out of this world. Breathing hurts, still, a wet, heavy ache, deep in his chest.

"See?" says Ramsay, and holds Reek's arm up for Reek to see. "You sure look a ruin, my weak Reek," he hums. Reeks sees and he must be beyond care, at this point, beyond illusion, for very little stirs in his chest, at the sight. _I'm rotting_ , he thinks, when he sees the greyed flesh clinging meagre to his bone, skin puffed red and black and yellow. _Flayed just the once too often._ Was he dying from it?

"This and more," Ramsay laughs, reading his thoughts, clearly, for he has the power to do so. Reek would tremble, if he had the strength to. "Don't you worry, though," says Ramsay and he leans forward to brush back some of Reek's hair, tender. "I will save you."

\--

"Sometimes the knife is necessary to cut away the decay," Ramsay explains, jovial. "Like with your fingers, remember?" Reek tries very hard not to remember. Just the thought of the knife has him cry.

"Oh, stop your complaining," Ramsay reprimands. "I did this often, cut away rotting pieces. I healed you and you didn't even notice." Reek lies shivering and ungrateful under Ramsay's hold.

"Look," says Ramsay, and points to Reek's heart fluttering. The pulse is visible between his ribs, a racing palpitation to the left of his chest, in in the hollow between the bones. "I keep you alive," says Ramsay, fingers ghosting over the spot. "You're alive only thanks to me."

Reeks head sinks back into his furs, too heavy to hold up. His flesh looks like death and famine, but if Ramsay says so, it must be true.

"Look," says Ramsay again, and picks Reek's head back up with one strong hand and Reek does not want to see another horror visited upon his body, he does not want to look any more. But follow his commands he must. Ramsay’s hands dance down mottled flesh, they play with flaps of deadened skin, with the leakage of Reek's meat. Reek's vision is red and bleary, but not bleary enough for this.

"No, _look_ ," Ramsay insists. "Do you see it grow back?" Indeed, there's bumpy pink flesh marking repair in the gaps wrecked. Reek obediently looks. It's horrible. "Thanks to _me_ ," Ramsay repeats. _No_ , something in Reek thinks, hot and desperate and unbidden, _no, you did this_ to _me_ , and the audacity of his ingratitude nearly chokes away his breath.

Ramsay will know. He will _know_. "Sorry," he tries to apologise for his disloyal thought, for his knowledge, but his tongue won't move. "Shhh," makes Ramsay, reading his thoughts, softly patting his cheek. "Don't fret," he smiles. "I _am_ merciful."

\--

Reek is sleeping and Ramsay is sitting at his side, playing with Reek's fingers.

" _I_ command over your life and your death," Ramsay is saying. "I do," he says. " _I_ decide when you die," and is there an uncertainty in his repetition? Is this self-reassurance? No, that is impossible. 

Ramsay _does_ command over Reek's life and death; he has proven this fully true over and over again.

\--

Reek drifts in and out of life and he's being fed spoonfuls of warm broth, and he must have forgotten, he had forgotten about warmth and food, and he weeps.

Reek drifts in and out of being and sudden panic keeps seizing him and _where is this?_ and _who is this?_ and it's _Ramsay_ and he trashes in terror at his sight. "Lay still!" Ramsay snaps. "I can hurt you _any_ time I choose, never forget this." Reek goes entirely limp. No, this he never forgets.

He is fed in regular intervals and this has never happened, this has _never_ happened, not since--, not _ever_ in Reek's existence. And he's bundled in warm wool and furs and the salves smell _good_ and Ramsay can hurt him any time he chooses, but he chooses not to. Reek keeps weeping.

"Are you grateful?" Ramsay asks, and yes, yes, _yes_ , Reek is grateful, he is.

\--

Reek does not see the ghosts, as he lays on his sickbed. He does not hallucinate, in spite of his fever, and that is surprising, maybe, for it is always the ghosts that kept him company through his pain, the ghosts and Ramsay's dogs, and he has grown used to his madness. And he misses the dogs, Helicent and Jez and Kyra, he wonders about their well-being, but he does not speak through the void to them. They kept him company through otherworldly agony and unending loneliness and maybe that is the reason: He here is not lonely. Ramsay diligently works his way through his wounds, sometimes briskly, sometimes gentle, sometimes talking in a monologue, sometimes silent. He rolls him over this side and that, bundles up his furs at his back, trickles warm broth into his mouth, helps him cough up the phlegm from his lungs, and Reek feels so very cared for.

Even Theon never was cared for in such a way.

\--

"Up you go," Ramsay says and slides Reek into a sitting position. "Stretch out your arms, hold them up," he commands, and Reek does, and it is possible. Ramsay examines his movement, examines his grip. "Pull up your legs," he says, and it is possible. What does Ramsay see? What does he assess? What does he know of Reek's body he created?

"You know our banners," Ramsay answers Reek's question, because he can read his thoughts. Reek does and he trembles from his knowledge. "It is not easy to flay a man," Ramsay explains. Ramsay just so loves to explain things to Reek, sometimes. Ramsay just so loves to hear himself talk.

"What do _you_ even know of the bodies you murdered?" he is saying, and _Reek_ never murdered anyone, _Reek_ never fought anyone, but he listens anyhow. "There's an art to it, you see?" says Ramsay and he trails Reek's bones with a finger, splays a hand over the ravaged skin. "There's a knowledge. The shape and limits of a man." Ramsay's eye is pearl and ash, never soft, never really soft.

"I was a slow learner, in this, it's true," he admits, unapologetic. Ramsay cares not for the survival of his prey. Except for Reek's. "But," he grips both of Reek's arms, stretches them out like a puppet, like a specimen caught, like a proud artist, and smiles, bright and warm: "I learned."

\--

Time is coming to an end, this time of reprieve, Reek can tell.

He can tell from the calculating way Ramsay is looking at him. He's weak, though, still so, so weak, and it is a horror, it always was a horror to let himself be nursed by the hands that tortured him, but Reek long learned to accept any kind of mercy. He learned to gratefully cling to anything that isn't pain.

He tries to hang limply in his furs. He tries to look asleep. He tries to move and breathe as little as possible. If he is recovered, Ramsay will throw him out into the cold snow again and make him work till he drops. If he is recovered, Ramsay will start carving into his flesh again. He will---

Ramsay pulls out the fur from under Reek's back and, with one swift motion, unceremoniously throws Reek onto the stone floor. 

"Yeah, I think you're good to go, now," he laughs.

Reek writhes on the ground, first, because it hurts, second, because if he is too weak to stand, maybe Ramsay will--

Ramsay's smile is at his side, incredulous. "Wait, are you-- are you _faking_ it?" Ramsay's voice is pure wonder. His eyes burn in amusement. "You devious little dog!" He throws back his head to laugh. "I _spoiled_ you and that's what I get from it!"

Ramsay's hand pulls him up by the neck, stands him up on his feet, efficient and brutal, and Reek struggles with his dizziness because, yes, he was faking it, but also, he is genuinely still so weak.

"No, no, no, that won't do, Reek." Ramsay gives him a little shove. Reek stumbles two steps forward and catches himself against the wall. "Please," he wants to say, but he's yet learning to breathe again. 

Ramsay laughs. "We now enter the next phase of treatment: Exercise!"

Ramsay catches Reek's eyes and Reek must stare back. He understands the finality.

"We're going on a hunt, you and me," Ramsay informs him, friendly, amiable. "By which I mean: I'm going to hunt you! Obviously." Ramsay's voice is merry but half bored. It is such lenience, to start with something so routine. Reek still nearly well drops back down to his knees. Not this again, _not this again_. _Please,_ not again. He starts crying.

"I don't think I need to explain the rules to you."

He doesn't.

"But, Reek?" says Ramsay, and there is no promise of mercy left, not this time. "You better not let me catch you too quickly."

Reek's heart thrums in well-known despair. Panic starts flowing through his limbs, well-trained terror.

And life resumes its usual course.


End file.
